


In Your Own Time

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, Comatose Castiel, Competition, Eventual Happy Ending, Grieving Dean, Heavy Angst, M/M, Musician Castiel, Musician Dean, Repeating History, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humans. Of all the misconstrued facts they call myth, they're the one thing that doesn't change. No matter how hard they try, how far east they dig to find the answers to the world, how much they think they're "changing" it if they do, humans will always, unfailingly, do something that'll reverse the sands of time and put them back where they started, leaving the ghost of tomorrow's ashes in their wake.</p><p>Humans, they'll always find a way to break your heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Own Time

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Tumblr’s otpprompts post: Imagine your OTP as gods. Imagine in recorded mythology, they were said to be enemies but in reality, they’re in a relationship but stupid humans are freaking inaccurate.
> 
> Of course, I went and made it sadder than it needed to be.
> 
> And really, how could I not use Apollo, the God of Truth (most of the time), Medicine (miracles with dental floss and whiskey), and the arts for Dean, and Marsyas, described as a wise and fearless leader who actively promoted Free Speech for Cas?
> 
> This was a challenging piece to write physically and emotionally, but I had to push through. 
> 
> Also, my heart is with Orlando and the victims. Please keep them in yours, too.

 

 

In recorded mythology, they're sworn enemies. God and mortal. Fire and flesh. Fortune and famine. But in their lifetime and nineteen more after, he and Castiel are lovers.

Humans. Of all the misconstrued facts they call myth, they're the one thing that doesn't change. No matter how hard they try, how far east they dig to find the answers to the world, how much they think they're "changing" it if they do, humans will always, unfailingly, do something that'll reverse the sands of time and put them back where they started, leaving the ghost of tomorrow's ashes in their wake.

Humans, they'll always find a way to break your heart.

_“Careful, you don’t wanna poke someone’s eyes out with that thing.”_

_Apollo stands stiller than wheat before harvesting season as a shining blue torrent crashes over him, irrigating more than a few buds on Apollo’s lean runner’s body. Marsyas’ eyes, however, don’t rival Apollo’s knowledge—even if Marsyas will eventually be known for being the sagest of mankind. The name in itself is a joke if you ask Apollo; man’s never been kind._

_Marsyas proves this point with the comment that follows: “Maybe that’s what they need,” he spits, setting his flute down to furrow his brows at the unaware people passing by. “Then they’d be forced to listen to the sound of_ real _art.”_

_Scoffing, Apollo bends down to sit on the opposite face of the tree Marsyas is leaning against, and says, “Aren’t you supposed to be a libertarian?”_

_“Free Speech is_ _a libertarian concept. I’m simply enforcing it.”_

_“Yeah, you’re a real revolutionist.”_

_“I didn’t say I wanted a revolution.”_

_Apollo laughs, caramel head shaking and sticking to the sap oozing from the tree, “Then what do you want?”_

_There’s a shift in the gluey, green grass, and then Marsyas is facing Apollo. “I’m sorry, but I fail to see what business a God has in a mortal’s life,” he retorts, big, gummy lips scrunching into a tight scowl._

_“No business,” Apollo says, shrugging. “Daddy makes a new son every ten seconds, and I get bored.”_

_“Sounds like a real problem—oh wait, did I forget to scrub the bed pans before I left? Did I feed my children?”_

_“You have children?”_

_“No, but I could conceive some if you stopped making love to my ears.”_

_“Or maybe if you just replaced that flute with a—”_

_Marsyas cuts him off with a terse laugh, moving to sit cross-legged next to Apollo. His rags hang from his body like bags underneath an old maid’s eyes, leaving a thin, vertical trail of bronze skin before Apollo as he extends his arms on either sides of his knees. “Alright, you’re a man of theatrics, you want to entertain yourself? How’s about I challenge you to a musical duel? Tomorrow at dawn. Winner takes all.”_

_Apollo shakes his head with a deep, rumbling laugh of his own, “No, please, I wouldn’t want you to embarrass—” Before he can finish, Marsyas turns around, picks up his flute, and huffs out a brash melody, leaving no room for further conversation. Apollo chuckles standing up, “Alright, but remember,_ you’re _responsible for picking out your funeral arrangements.”_

“Dean?”

Dean shoots from the bed faster than a bean shoot. “Yes, hi, um… is he—?”

“There are no new improvements or changes. His vitals are the same as the night before,” the RN says, mouth curving into a tight frown. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you two alone.”

Dean absentmindedly rakes his dirty fingernails over his fawn beard before his body sinks into the bed again. He looks so peaceful, lying there with his eyes closed and his hands like wooden planks on either sides of him. If it weren’t for the tubes running through his tanned nose and bruises the colors of Independence Day kissing his forehead and cheeks, he would _actually_ be at peace.

So would Dean.

Apollo’s watched Marsyas die time again. And every century, he prays for a miracle, he _tries_ out a dozen himself, from modern day medicine to simply talking to him, hoping one of them is a cure to Cas’s suffering.

Dean carefully grabs Cas’s limp hand and shakily weaves their fingers together again. He’s warmer than he was a few seconds ago, but that could be Dean. He’s been up longer than the sun—hell, he’s clocked in more hours than the nurses. It wouldn’t come as a shock if he’s coming down with something.

“C’mon, Marsyas,” he says as the dam in his throat betrays him, slips water out from underneath his two, all-seeing, all-knowing bright green earths, “I can’t lose you. Not again.”

_“Please, you’re just saying that to throw me off.”_

_Apollo’s eyes roll to the Heavens with a scoff, “Whatever, just trying to help.”_

_“My flute has_ never _been out of tune. Besides, I thought you were the God of Truth—”_

_Before Marsyas can finish, the curtains open to reveal a hundred, maybe two hundred wide-eyed spectators, not including those of the Muses, who might as well have three eyes with their old, balding heads. He recognizes the man in the middle of the three judges as Zachariah, a good friend of his father’s and worst enemy to the people. Before Apollo allows him to officially commence the competition, Apollo leans into Marsyas and says: “I’m sorry.”_

_Marsyas purses his head, baffled by the sudden declaration. “Why? What for?”_

_“You’re right,” Apollo says into his ear. “And as the God of Truth, I have to tell you I’m in love with you.”_

50, 52, 54...

Dean breathes a sigh of relief over Cas as the heart monitor rises just a little.

_Marsyas starts out with a soft note from his flute that rings out across the audience, steady and clear. Apollo joins in with his harp, only, instead of steady and clear, he plucks the strings on his instrument like a thief would the feathers on a prized cock. In turn, Marsyas picks up the pace with a few more notes. Then Apollo. Then Marsyas. This goes on for quite some time until Apollo stops their borderline orchestrated melody in favor of singing._

“In your own time,  
There's no map to guide our way.  
So I say nothing, you say nothing  
In your own way.”

55… 56…57…

_“He’s cheating!” Marsyas shouts. “He’s using his vocals to expand his musical range!”_

_A silence falls over the crowd shadowed by a few uncontrolled gasps. As the Muses shake their heads in pure, synchronized disgust, Apollo pushes Marsyas aside and yells, “Muses, if I may. My opponent is right. However, his mouth was kissing his flute, and mine the air, so we’re both cheaters.”_

_Zachariah’s the first to stand, and in his highly congested voice, says, “Nonsense, Apollo. No need to defend a mortal. He was the one foolish enough to challenge the son of Zeus—”_

_“Well, to be fair, there are a_ lot _of men with that title—”_

_“—therefore, I sentence you, Marsyas, to be publically flayed.”_

_Before Apollo can react, a sea of sweaty, anticipating limbs lick the stage like termites, tearing after Marsyas._

“Thought I could help you find your place,  
But I'm as lost as you are lost these days…”

 _“No,” Apollo cries, throwing his body at the beaten, bloodied one strung to the tree, “no!”_  
  
“Oh wouldn't it be fine  
To close your eyes and see something,  
Something more than this?”

Dean’s practically kissing the lyrics into Cas’s neck being so close as the monitor goes off.

66, 67, 68…

“Oh my God,” Dean breathes, cupping Cas’s face in his hands. And no, Cas is _definitely_ the one boiling. Dean’s palms could turn into browned flapjacks any moment, and he’s never been happier.

79, 81, 83…

Cas’s eyes slowly blink open, like he’s waking up from a 2000 year-long dream. “A… Apollo?” Dean chokes back a sob and goes straight for the burner, kissing Cas like he’s his inhaler after going years without breathing. Maybe he has. It’s hard to tell after so many years without his inamorato.

He pulls back when he notices Cas has something to say: “You’re… still a cheater.”

Dean sputters a laugh, spilling tears onto Cas’s IV, “I can live with that.”

And, in the end, as much as he spurns them, Dean thinks he can learn something from humans.

Like how to mend a broken heart.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from Keane's "In Your Own Time".


End file.
